


Monster Eyes

by Mysecretfanmoments



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anal Sex, Eye Sex, Haikyuu!! Manga Spoilers, Hook-Up, Locker Room, M/M, POV Alternating, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Size Difference, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:40:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24459094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysecretfanmoments/pseuds/Mysecretfanmoments
Summary: After months of lingering looks across the court, Hinata finally gets Ushijima alone.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Comments: 30
Kudos: 1226





	Monster Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> For the wonderful @TheThirstyRose on twitter, who contacted me about writing a fic to go along with @reallyforking's amazing ushihina art, seen here (nsfw): https://twitter.com/reallyforking/status/1242983652348375040 HEART EYES AT BOTH OF YOU! Thank you for helping me live my best life.
> 
> Note: this is set after the current manga arc. Please don't read if you're anime-only and want to remain unspoiled for the current (March 2020ish and before) arc!

Wakatoshi considers himself a patient man. He knows when to wait and when to strike. He believes in due diligence, and always follows instructions to the letter.

There are no instructions for how to deal with the new and improved Hinata Shouyou who returns from Brazil—a Hinata who livens up the Japanese pro leagues in a way even Hoshiumi can’t.

It’s not because Hinata is all talk with no skill to back it up, not anymore. The spitfire from Wakatoshi’s last year of high school has matured into a player so well-rounded it’s infuriating—and exhilarating—to play against. He holds his teammates and opponents in thrall, and Wakatoshi is no exception. But perhaps he’s more in thrall than most, and for good reason.

He sees the way Hinata looks at him sometimes. It makes his blood boil in his veins, fire singeing tracks along his nerves. Those monster eyes look him up and down, taking in everything, and Wakatoshi feels himself devoured by them. Hinata will stare at him like this without shame, often—and then their eyes will meet.

The first time it happened, Hinata reddened and looked away. By the fifth time he’d been bold with it, noticing that Wakatoshi watched him back. There were people around. What would Hinata do if there weren’t?

Wakatoshi doesn’t find out in their first few months as opponents. The only contact they have outside of skin-searing eye contact is handshakes after a match. Hinata’s hand fits into his, small and callused, and Wakatoshi feels the stirring in his exhausted body. It wants, and he wants, and it seems like Hinata does too.

His patience thins.

There’s no point asking Kageyama for Hinata’s number. Wakatoshi isn’t good at words at the best of times, and the thing between him and Hinata is so physical he’s at a loss for them. How to tell a person he wants to tear his clothes off and drive into him? He could say it plainly, he supposes—Hinata’s long looks might mean he can—but the temporary insanity he feels when they’re across the court from one another can’t be blamed when he’s looking at a phone.

And then they meet at a tournament. They’re in different brackets, but the same building, and the glimpses Wakatoshi catches throughout make his thoughts fizz to nothing in his head. It doesn’t affect his play, and the Adlers make it through their matches—but Wakatoshi is frustrated at the end of the day. He glares at a volleyball cart in the mostly empty gym where they had their last match, thinking of serve practice. He wouldn’t be allowed to stay late in the stadium, but this is the side gym. Maybe…

“You’re Ushijima Wakatoshi,” an attendant says. Wakatoshi looks around to see a man observing him. “Serve practice, right? Go ahead, if you like!”

Wakatoshi bows slightly, which makes the attendant blush. He watches the first few serves—then finishes up, leaving Wakatoshi to hammer balls across the court in peace.

The hard hits would be more satisfying if he could stop remembering a Jackals match he saw earlier: Hinata’s trim form flying across the court, perfectly agile and perfectly separate from him. He wants to serve these punishing strikes right into those once-weak arms. Let Hinata show him again that these past years have shaped him into a rival worth noting. The weed Wakatoshi knew in high school put down a taproot. It’s persistent.

Hinata has always been an itch under Wakatoshi’s skin, but he’s grown to like it. Anticipate it, even. He hits ball after ball, and fights surprise when he finds the cart empty.

“How many is that?” someone calls, and Wakatoshi freezes. Was that…

He turns, and sure enough, Hinata Shouyou stands in the deserted gym. He’s still in uniform, a cat’s clawmark across his abdomen, his kneepads around his ankles. He fidgets with nervous energy, even after a day of tough matches.

Wakatoshi doesn’t know the answer. He wasn’t counting. He was daydreaming—and maybe he still is.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

Hinata moves closer, and Wakatoshi is reminded of the Karasuno mascot. A crow, dark and curious, with glinting eyes. Crows are dangerous in a flock—but Hinata is here alone. Wakatoshi moves to meet him mid-court, where Hinata stands looking up at him, still twitchy.

“I forgot my bag somewhere,” Hinata says. He glances at a door. “I wanted to check the locker room here.”

“I’ll help you look,” Wakatoshi says. Hinata’s mouth opens in an ‘o’, and Wakatoshi doesn’t wait to see if he follows. He leads the way to the locker room, wondering if there really is a lost bag.

“You don’t have to,” Hinata tells him as he follows Wakatoshi into the room. The only bag in the locker room is Wakatoshi’s there on the bench, that Wakatoshi can see, and when he stops and looks at Hinata, Hinata’s face floods with colour. The locker room is deserted. They’re alone.

It seems purposeful. Wakatoshi steps closer, and Hinata doesn’t back away. Setting a finger under his chin to tip his face up doesn’t make him flinch away either, even as his blush deepens.

“Why can’t I stop thinking about you?” Wakatoshi asks, searching those monster eyes for clues. The pupils dilate, lashes fluttering in a few quick blinks. Wakatoshi’s stomach tightens. Hinata used to remind him of a small prey animal, and the nervous energy is still there, but so is that monster appetite. A carnivore in the soft body of a rabbit.

Hard muscle underpins the softness. Maybe that’s the part that draws Wakatoshi—the hard and soft, the steady monster eyes coupled with hair trigger nerves.

“I don’t know,” Hinata says. He reaches to hold Wakatoshi’s bicep, trying to fit his hand around it. He can’t, but he doesn’t seem displeased by that. When he looks up at Wakatoshi again, his gaze is feverish. “Maybe it’s just something we need to get out of our systems.”

Hinata’s hair is too short at the back to grab. It used to be longer—but Wakatoshi’s hand is big enough to grasp the back of his skull in its entirety. He pulls Hinata’s mouth up to his by it, slow but unyielding. Hinata gasps against his lips. For a moment he’s frozen, like a rabbit in a snare—but he jerks closer when Wakatoshi presses their mouths together. In another moment he’s pulling himself up on Wakatoshi’s shoulders, hands and mouth needy. The kiss is hungry, the smell of Hinata’s sweat wiping out conscious thought. Instinct has always been Wakatoshi’s driving force. He doesn’t miss reason when it leaves him.

Hinata is on his tiptoes, half-hanging from his shoulders. Their bodies press tight to one another, mouths inseparable, hips set hard to hips. Hinata’s eagerness leaves Wakatoshi breathless, wiped clean.

“Get on your knees,” he says when he pulls back, not a single thought in his head. Hinata wheezes.

“Uh—?”

“Face the other way. Kneel.”

Hinata sinks down, eyes wide, but Wakatoshi stops him before he’s quite made it to the position.

“Here,” he says, crouching to pull Hinata’s kneepads back up to his knees. Hinata’s face floods with colour once more. “Now face away.”

Hinata follows his instruction. “You’re not gonna tell me what you’re—”

His question cuts off when Wakatoshi puts a possessive hand on his tailbone. He stiffens, his hands clenching on the wooden slats of the bench.

“What you’re gonna… do…?”

“What do you want me to do?”

Hinata sits back, looking up at Wakatoshi over his shoulder. Wakatoshi can feel the warmth of his face, smell his sweat. He lifts his brows, waiting.

“Don’t hold back?” Hinata says. It’s the perfect response; Wakatoshi finds himself smiling.

“I never do,” he says, and with that he pulls Hinata’s hips up and his shorts down over his glutes. The effect of their conversation is already making itself clear: Hinata’s cock has to be unhooked from his waistband to uncover it, and it looks shiny and flushed, perfectly formed like the rest of him. Wakatoshi leaves it alone for now. Instead he kneads the hard muscles of Hinata’s ass, his breath leaving him in harsh gusts. He can’t keep his eyes or his hands off the perfectly sculpted ass once he gets a good look at it. It drives him half-insane, his hands anything but gentle. The perfect pink of Hinata’s hole begs to be touched. He stares for a moment, savouring the sight.

Hinata cries out when he puts a thumb to his twitching hole.

“Too much?” Wakatoshi asks.

Hinata huffs a laugh. “Not even close. More. But I don’t have—”

Wakatoshi doesn’t have to be told twice. He sets his wet mouth to the ring of muscle, startling another cry out of Hinata. He doesn’t pause this time, pushing past resistance to lick at Hinata’s insides. The sounds Hinata makes are desperate, pleading. It pleases Wakatoshi to know Hinata can bump a deadly spike without complaint but falls to pieces at the press of his tongue inside of him. Hinata’s strong thighs tremble like leaves in fall.

Wakatoshi pushes, and laves, and all the while he kneads tender flesh, feasting on Hinata’s cries and hitches of breath. He’s the most responsive lover Wakatoshi has ever had, and somehow Wakatoshi isn’t surprised.

His cock aches with impatience. The tight press of muscle around his tongue fires his imagination, strokes at the arousal inside. His cock is straining against his shorts, ready to drive into Hinata until Hinata is a shaking mess. His fingers tighten on Hinata’s ass, spreading it for his tongue. Hinata holds onto the bench like a lifeline, whimpering and bucking, much too close to orgasm. If he comes before Wakatoshi can prepare him properly, Wakatoshi will hold him down until he’s hard again. He needs to make him come with his cock, needs to feel the clench of those insides.

“I don’t have lube,” Hinata half sobs. “How can we—I want to, but how—”

“Massage oil in my bag,” Wakatoshi pulls back to say. Hinata shudders seemingly with relief, beginning to pull the bag to him across the bench. His hands shake on the zipper.

“Side pocket,” Wakatoshi says. “But you’re not ready.” He kneads Hinata’s glutes and thighs, imagining his large handprints on Hinata’s body tomorrow. The image sends him driving his tongue into Hinata again. He can’t stay away; he’s waited too long.

Hinata moans, rocking back into him even as his hands search. “How much do you have in here? I… fuck! Ah, hey—” He must locate the bottle, because something is thrown down beside Wakatoshi.

Hinata rests his head against the bench, legs quivering. “It’ll stretch, it’s fine. I want you to come inside me.”

It’s almost enough to spur Wakatoshi into rash action—into punishment. If he were still eighteen and resentful of the loss to Karasuno, he might show Hinata how wrong he is, thinking he can take him like this—but this is a new Hinata, and his desperation is charming. Every quivering muscle in his body tells Wakatoshi the stares across the court have been leading to this. Wakatoshi hasn’t been imagining a thing. Hinata wants him desperately, with a single-minded focus that would flatter anyone. Wakatoshi can’t wait to feel Hinata hot around his cock, overwhelmed with the fit of him.

“You’re not ready,” Wakatoshi repeats, and drives his tongue back inside.

*

Ushijima Wakatoshi’s tongue is up Shouyou’s ass, and if he doesn’t stop soon Shouyou is going to explode. The wet press of Ushijima’s tongue inside him is so good and so not-enough, it makes him want to scream. He could come from this, but he needs Ushijima seated inside him. Needs to know if his cock is as huge as the rest of him. Shit—he should have felt for it when they were still standing. What if it doesn’t measure up?

Shouyou has been imagining this. Well, not _this_ —he never would have dreamed Ushijima would start devouring his ass like it’s a full-course meal—but Ushijima’s cock inside him. He wants Ushijima to be as big and overwhelming as he is on the court. He wants to cry with how full he is.

The pleasure of Ushijima’s tongue licking into him is too gentle. He needs it to stop, and he needs it to keep going. It makes him greedy, and he already wants too much. At this rate he’ll need Ushijima’s cock to be the size of Tokyo tower. Nothing and no one can live up to that. Nothing can—

The desperate spin of his thoughts is interrupted by the sound of a bottle opening, _finally_. Shouyou nearly sobs with relief, but the relief leaves him when Ushijima pulls back. His hole aches needily, cold without Ushijima’s warm mouth on it, his tongue inside. It needs to be filled immediately; he’s never felt this empty.

Seconds of needy, harsh breaths pass before a slicked-up fingertip touches him. He tries to push back into it, but Ushijima keeps his other hand on his ass to hold him steady. Why is he waiting? It’ll fit. Shouyou knows it’ll fit, and then—

Just the fingertip. Up to the first broad knuckle. Shouyou moans and tries to press back, thwarted again by Ushijima’s relentless hold.

“More,” he says. He’s not super experienced, but he’s not new to this stuff either. He feels like he could fit a whole church inside with how Ushijima prepared him. “Two fingers is fine.”

“Impatient,” Ushijima says.

“It goes both ways,” Shouyou gasps out. Is that another fingertip? But why is Ushijima playing with him? It’s not enough, not even close. “I’ve been thinking about you too.”

“About this?”

Ushijima’s deep voice makes him shudder. Of course a voice like that belongs to a star player, an absolute tank of a person. Shouyou wants that voice inside him too. “Mm.”

“Like this?” Ushijima is working two fingers in, finally sinking them deeper. It feels amazing. Shouyou’s cock aches, untouched. The little bit of friction from the waistband of his shorts has him aware of every movement inside him, all the places Ushijima strokes him. He feels those big knuckles against the opening, slick and teasing. Shouyou looks over his shoulder with some difficulty. Ushijima is using his talented left hand for this, and the expression on his face is rapt. He could be about to say a prayer or kill a person. Shouyou tries to get a look lower, but Ushijima’s arm obscures the tent in his volleyball shorts. _Damn it—_

“I’m ready,” Shouyou says. If Ushijima is just average, it would be better to know now and make the best of it. But if he’s big, Shouyou can’t wait any longer to see.

“You’re not ready,” Ushijima says.

Shouyou pushes his torso up. He twists around to grab at Ushijima’s shirt, and finally he gets an eyeful of Ushijima’s shorts. _Holy shit_. He’d been about to say he was ready again, but is that outline really...

“Show me,” he says instead.

Ushijima tilts his head, then helps him move. Shouyou’s back is lowered to the floor, and he gets his weight up on his elbows. He should be embarrassed by the way his cock leaks precum onto his abdomen, but Ushijima looks at him like he’s dessert, so he doesn’t care. His eyes drop from the rapt look to the tented white shorts, waiting for them to go.

“You want to see me?” Ushijima asks, like he’s confirming an odd but acceptable fact. Shouyou has never understood what goes on in Ushijima’s head, but this is especially strange. What does Ushijima expect? Does he think Shouyou just fell into this situation without thinking? Of course he wants to see.

He nods, spit thick on his tongue the way it is during exercise, and Ushijima inclines his head. After a moment he unceremoniously pulls down one leg of his shorts, even going so far as to draw it over his left shoe so nothing hinders Shouyou’s viewing pleasure.

It’s… glorious.

“You were right,” Shouyou says faintly. His body is still greedy from earlier, but that… size… “I’m not ready.”

But shit, he wants to be. He’s mentally ready, at least. Ushijima’s cock is worth riding for a week straight. He’d never walk again. It’s so big it blanks out Shouyou’s mind in a way little else does—just volleyball and food. The basics for life.

When Ushijima squirts more lube—oil?—onto his fingers and works to slick Shouyou up more, he doesn’t complain. His head falls back as thick fingers enter him again. Everything is white noise and pleasure. He can’t stop thinking about how right he was to come here. This is exactly what he wanted, all those times Ushijima was like an armored tank across the court from him. All those times that broad, strong body beckoned from across the court with a _maybe_ attached to it.

Those golden eyes from all those times watch him now, and they devour him. Shouyou is ready to be devoured.

“Stop squirming,” Ushijima says.

Shouyou hadn’t been squirming. He’d just been trying to work those fingers into him harder, draw them deeper. Trying to beckon in another one, as preparation for that gigantic cock. That’s not squirming.

“I’m ready now,” he says.

“You’re not.”

“I’m—”

His words cut off as Ushijima slings one of his legs over his shoulder, descending once more to mouth at Shouyou’s hole. It has to be disgusting with all the lube, but Ushijima doesn’t even flinch. Just works at him until he’s needier than he’s ever been, gasping for whatever relief can be given. He _wants_.

He keens when Ushijima wipes at his mouth and moves forward. Shouyou sits up, not quite able to believe his eyes. He works his fingers around Ushijima’s cock. It’s hard as metal, the soft skin nothing to the ungiving girth of it. Shouyou’s mouth waters.

“Are you trying to help?” Ushijima asks. He offers the bottle of oil, and Shouyou holds out his palm for the offering. A squirt of oil into his hands, and he’s officially helping, rubbing slick-soft oil all over Ushijima’s length. He has a moment of regret for not trying to wrap his mouth around it first. It’s so thick, so perfect. He wants to gag on it. His hands look small in comparison.

“Enough,” Ushijima says, and it clenches everything in Shouyou up to a tense peak. He waits, trembling, one of his legs up on Ushijima’s shoulder. He looks ridiculous, he’s sure. Ushijima won’t even want him like this. Ushijima won’t—

Ushijima doesn’t care. He kneels, and pulls Shouyou’s ass flush against his giant cock. Shouyou whimpers, shirt rucked up from being dragged over the locker room floor. He’s vulnerable as he’s ever been, half-dressed and panting. His body aches to be filled. He repositions, trying to catch the tip of Ushijima’s cock against his entrance.

 _Are you trying to help_? Shouyou imagines in that deep, neutral voice. It’s like being mocked, but Ushijima isn’t trying to mock him. Shouyou repositions again. If he can just catch the head and pull himself onto it—

There’s a sound like a gust of breath, and then Ushijima is holding him with a bruising grip, lifting him so he’s ready to be entered, The head of Ushijima’s cock is thick and perfect against him. Slick. Hot. And—

The push of that thick head into him has Shouyou gasping for breath. He clutches for purchase on the floor, not wanting to smear oil on their uniforms. There’s nothing to hold onto, and Ushijima is _huge_. Like being penetrated by a force of nature. Shouyou kicks his legs, arches his back, squirms into that delicious pressure.

Ushijima’s grip falters for just a second. Shouyou glances up, sensing weakness, and sees Ushijima’s eyes closing tightly. Ushijima sets his jaw with his eyes closed, seeming overcome—and then the second passes, and he’s clear-eyed again, steady as ever. The look he gives Shouyou is intimidating. His golden gaze says _you better not break_ , even though just the tip of his cock has Shouyou in raptures. Of course he’s going to break.

“Don’t hold back,” Shouyou reminds him. They’re big words for someone who feels filled to the brim just like this, but he’s never been one to back down from a challenge. Ushijima lets out an amused breath.

He pushes in further. Shouyou’s breath squeaks into his lungs, pain and pleasure fusing inside of him. “Ow,” he says, until his body adjusts. Pleasure wins out again—pleasure and aching fullness, the slick desire for more. “Keep going.”

Bit by bit, Ushijima eases inside of him. It doesn’t get comfortable. It continues to feel like being broken open, and Ushijima looks down at Shouyou like he’s waiting for him to admit defeat. Shouyou lets himself grin—a pained grin, but a grin nonetheless.

“Well?” he asks when Ushijima’s slick, perfect length is fully seated, his pelvis up against Shouyou’s ass. The good spot inside Shouyou is eager, squeezed by Ushijima’s sheer breadth even when he’s not moving. It aches as greedily as his hole had around Ushijima’s tongue. In this moment, overwhelmed and sweating under Ushijima, he has to admit Ushijima is the perfect specimen. He’s never denied it, but still. He’s grade A.

“Tell me if it hurts too much,” Ushijima rumbles, looking down at Shouyou steadily. The impersonal tone would be much more fitting across a counter than slick and sweaty and half-dressed together like this, and Shouyou grins again.

“I will, Ushijima-san.”

Ushijima raises his brows. “You should.”

In answer, Shouyou moves against him, using his abs to pull himself along Ushijima’s cock. It’s awkward but amazing, and Shouyou could get himself off like this, with Ushijima statue-still above him. But then Ushijima takes his hips in a bruising grip and begins to move.

Shouyou wheezes, his muscles unclenching. It’s all he can do not to fall apart right away. The sounds of Ushijima’s slick cock sliding out and back in are lewd as anything he’s ever heard. He quivers on the edge of a too-fast orgasm, willing his stupid body to hold on. He _can’t_ come yet. He needs Ushijima to drive into him hard at least once. He’s received too many painful spikes from Ushijima to be satisfied with gentle treatment.

“More,” he says. It comes out a plea. “Faster, I mean. More. Hard… I want it hard.”

“Hm,” is all Ushijima says in response—but he speeds up. Not by much, but a little. Enough to blank out Shouyou’s mind until all he’s aware of is the movement inside of him and the pulsing need in his cock to be touched. He can’t touch it, because he’d come the instant he did. He just thinks about touching it with the tiny edge of his brain that isn’t focused on Ushijima pushing into him, touching every nerve inside his body with each stroke.

His hair stands on edge. Cries die in his throat, or maybe they leave him. He can’t quite tell, because his world has narrowed down to how full he is. Like he’s going to burst open—and the good spot inside him is going to be all that’s left, red-hot and aching with the repeated hits from Ushijima’s perfect, Tokyo tower-sized cock. Ushijima moves into a better position, bracing himself, and begins to drive down into him in earnest.

Shouyou folds just about double. The thrusts are relentless. Ushijima’s hands on his thighs are big and bruising. Shouyou’s useless, oily hands reach and reach until he finds his own hair and clutches at it: finally something to grip onto that won’t stain.

 _Yes_ , he thinks, clenching to meet Ushijima’s endless, driving thrusts. He can’t hold against the battering force of them, and eventually he’ll just be a puddle on the floor, but he’ll enjoy every second until then. Ushijima doesn’t let up. Just like on the court, he puts everything into his movement, and Shouyou starts to break apart.

“Yes,” he moans, legs working, full and full and full with each snap of Ushijima’s hips. The good spot inside _throbs_ , reaching out through his whole body so even his nipples are rock-hard and sensitive. The room’s lights shine through Shouyou’s closed eyelids, he keens—and then the overwhelming fullness, the unforgiving snap of hips, send him over the edge. It’s stuttery, because he isn’t touching himself. He bucks and trembles through it, and somewhere during his messy, ground-shaking orgasm Ushijima’s punishing pace becomes irregular.

Ushijima gasps, groans very slightly in that deep voice of his—and then he’s spending inside Shouyou, thick and wet and spurting. Shouyou manages not to shout with the pleasure of it, Ushijima meeting him, filling him. Ushijima’s cum inside.

Shouyou collapses, enjoying the aftershocks. It takes Ushijima a while to draw back, but he does eventually. He takes a handkerchief from his bag and wipes himself down, tucks himself back in neatly. Shouyou watches until there’s nothing to see, enjoying the broad lines of Ushijima’s body—especially enjoying the fact that he was just wrecked by that giant body. His head falls back. What a wonderful day of matches.

A touch against his stomach makes him twitch up. Ushijima is wiping him down with a different handkerchief, mopping the cum from his stomach. It’s ticklish; Shouyou’s stomach jumps, and he sits up a little.

“You don’t have to—”

Ushijima wipes some of the slick from between his legs, and Shouyou falls silent. It’s wholly impersonal, and yet at the same time just a little tender. He smiles, loopy with satisfaction. His body is one big ache of afterglow.

“You’re not worried I’ll steal your vitality with this? People used to think that, you know.”

Ushijima’s head tilts. “You don’t need mine.”

Shouyou’s mouth drops open. That’s… a nice compliment. Is Ushijima being soft on him? No… Ushijima wouldn’t know how.

“I’ll take any advantage I can get,” Shouyou says honestly.

Ushijima smiles. “Yes.”

“So if I sucked all your strength out with that, you’ll just have to deal with it.” Shouyou starts to get up, but his body won’t cooperate. Too much time with his legs in the air having his soul pounded to dust. He sits, assessing his options, until Ushijima pulls him to his feet. Somehow his legs take his weight, and he sets his uniform to rights. Ushijima watches impassively.

Shouyou thinks about offering him his number. Right now Shouyou is sated, but he can’t vouch for tomorrow or the day after, let alone a week or month from now. He definitely can’t predict how he’ll feel when he sees Ushijima across the court again. Knowing himself, he’ll want a second helping. And a third, and fourth. Each time one of those killer spikes gets away from him. He goes to the door, hard-put to ignore the mess of oil and cum on the inside of his shorts. He _really_ needs a shower, but he doesn’t have his things here.

“What about your bag?” Ushijima asks, watching him leave.

“Oh, it’s not here.” Shouyou smiles, opening the door.

“You know where it is?”

Shouyou nods. For a moment it looks like Ushijima smiles back, and then the expression is gone. God—he really is huge. It’s wonderful, just looking at how he fills an empty room. Shouyou waves.

“See you on the court!”

“I’ll crush you.”

Shouyou grins. “I’m pretty hard to crush.”

They share a moment of deep satisfaction. Ushijima _is_ smiling—just not with his mouth. Shouyou can feel it in the air around them, sense it in the lines of Ushijima’s posture. He feels a shiver of renewed want already, and he has to get out of here if he doesn’t want to go for round two. His body can’t take it, no matter what desire says. He’s spent the past years learning his limits; he’d better put the knowledge to use.

He leaves, closing the door behind him and taking deep lungfuls of salonpas-scented air. Maybe he did steal Ushijima’s vitality, because he’s light as a feather and can’t stop grinning.

He can’t wait to face the Adlers again.


End file.
